


Level Nine.

by heyitsnxel



Series: 30 Trope Prompts. [5]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Bartender Phil, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M, Rich Dan, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsnxel/pseuds/heyitsnxel
Summary: No one ever sat at the bar, until one night someone did.





	Level Nine.

**Author's Note:**

> day 5: bartender AU.

Phil wasn’t sure how he ended up bartending at one of the most prestigious bars in New York City. One minute, he was pouring beer at a sports bar, barely getting paid minimum wage, and having to deal with the obnoxiously drunk groups of college kids that hung out there and the next? He was being whisked away by a man in a suit that probably cost more than Phil’s whole apartment to the rooftop of The Belmont Hotel.

 

Just like everyone else who frequented the bar scene, he’d heard about Level Nine. Despite being far past the ninth floor of the hotel it sat atop of, Level Nine was the kind of place only rich people could afford to step into. Gone were the frat boys spilling beer everywhere. Now it was socialites; It was men in business attire sipping rum and cokes by outdoor fireplaces while they discussed politics and business deals. Couples who were dressed to the nines, little black dresses and Gucci suits, downing extra dry martinis faster than Phil could make them.

 

It was for the socially elite. The rich. The famous. 

 

Somewhere Phil definitely didn’t belong. Yet, here he stood, black slacks and a white button down shirt donned and martini shaker in hand. His hair was meticulously pushed back into a quiff despite knowing the strands were bound to fall in his face by the end of the night.

 

He just had to look the part. No one here had to know that he lived in a shitty one bedroom apartment on the other side of the city, no one had to know how pathetically broke he was until he got this job, no one even had to know his name if he didn’t want to tell them. It didn’t matter though because no one ever asked. Phil wasn’t even sure if he’d heard anything other than drinks orders since his feet his the patio floor on his first day.

 

Tonight was no different. The city lights were spread out like stars, a harsh contrast against the sky. The sound of traffic was muffled by the music playing over the speakers. Phil briefly wondered what it would be like to live this kind of life as he tipped a bottle of champagne into the flute in his hand, dropping a few raspberries to the bottom of the glass once he was done. The bubbles rose to the top and he repeated the process four more times before signaling a co-worker to come take the drinks where they needed to go.

 

No one ever sat at the bar. There was a set of three stools, matte black from top to bottom, sitting empty in front of him. The only human interaction they ever received was when someone bumped into them while ordering a drink. He supposed it would be weird to come to a place like Level Nine and talk to the bartender. They should probably just move them, honestly.

 

Phil had gotten lost in his thoughts of barstools and living the socially elite dream life when he heard someone’s fingers tapping against the bar. He jumped as he saw them, fumbling with the glass he had been wiping in his hands, before regaining some of the composure he was supposed to always have while he was working. The man didn’t even give Phil a chance to say anything before slapping a black card down on the counter, ordering a pair of manhattans, and walking away towards a much younger boy on the terrace.

His eyebrow rose as it fell on the black card. Even for Level Nine that wasn’t common. But he decided to think nothing of it and went to work making the man’s drinks.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil didn’t interact with the man again until he came back for his card. All his drink orders had been placed through one of the waitresses, who he had running back and forth all night. He signed off on the receipt without a word and walked out the door, hands stuffed angrily in the pockets of his pinstripe suit.

 

The boy who he had been sitting with was still on the terrace, a half empty glass dangled precariously in his left hand as he leaned against the railing. His head was hung, curls occasionally getting tussled by the breeze that had begun. With a sigh, he tipped the glass back like a shot and placed it on the table, walking out without a glance in Phil’s direction.

 

* * *

 

It was cold.

 

The outdoor fire places were lit, the hidden heaters in the base of the patio roof were on. None of those luxuries extended to the bar though, so Phil was freezing. His hands shook as he ran the cleaning rag over the surface for what felt like the 30th time despite their being nothing to wipe away. It was their dead hour, that awkward time where everyone was out eating dinner and had no reason to be at a bar. Yet Phil still had to stand there, attention ready, just in case someone were to come in.

 

He always felt awkward standing around doing nothing. He got fidgety and nervous, which resulted in him repetitively wiping down the counters and unused barstools. He turned the liquor bottles so the labels faced outwards, wiping the cloth over them as well. It was his least favorite part of the day.

 

Luckily, it seemed that part of the day wasn’t going to last very long.

 

Despite being early into their dead hour, the door of the elevator swept open and the same boy from a few nights ago stepped out. Phil hadn’t had a chance to look at him until now. His hair was dark, the same color as the whiskey he poured every night, falling in a mix of wavy curls across his forehead. He was wearing a black suit, minus the jacket which was draped over his arm. A black tie hung loosely from his neck.  All of that seemed normal from what Phil had gotten used to. Expensive suits were almost as common at Level Nine as the taxis were on the streets below. What really caught his attention, however, was the black and white Converse on his feet. The laces were tied sloppily, the sides scuffed, and they were a complete contradiction to the probably designer suit on his body.

 

The boy hesitated in the exact middle of the patio, his eyes flickering to the couches where he had sat previously and then back to Phil a few times, before his converse clad feet began to make his way towards the bar, eventually leaning against the counter.

 

“Hey. How are you?”

 

Phil was surprised. He wasn’t used to anything other than drink orders, but this random boy (who barely looked old enough to be in here) had his head tipped to the side, waiting for Phil to answer.

 

“I’m doing fine, thank you. What can I get you this evening?”

 

He looked past Phil, slipping onto one of the stools in front of the bar as he eyed the rows of liquor bottles on the shelves behind him. Phil’s eyebrow rose subconsciously. Much to his dismay, his mouth began moving on it’s own accord.

 

“No one ever sits there.”

 

The boy looked back at Phil, propping his chin in his hand.

 

“Well, I’m happy to be the first. I’ll look like less of a loser if I’m sitting here drinking as opposed to sitting over there drinking by myself. Rum and coke. Heavy on the rum, light on the coke.”

 

He flipped open his wallet, sliding yet another black card across the counter. That was two in one week. Phil stared at it blankly, his mind running with thoughts. _Daniel Howell_. The name on the card seemed familiar but Phil couldn’t grasp where from. It had to be somewhere important if he had a black card of all things.

 

Daniel seemed to read his mind, sighing slightly before he started speaking.

 

“Howell and Son Law Firm. My dad is Howell, I am _unfortunately_ the son. One of them anyway.”

 

Oh! Duh! Now Phil could see it. The commercials, the newspaper write ups, the feature in that random magazine that had been accidentally delivered to his door. It all made sense as to why he would have a card of this caliber. He was slightly embarrassed at being so transparent. It took Dan all of ten seconds flat to practically read his mind and only another few seconds to do it again.

 

“Don’t worry. I get it a lot when I use that card.”

 

“Oh, right, I apologize.” Phil plastered his best customer service voice on as he moved to pour his drink.

 

To his surprise, Daniel laughed.

“You don’t have to be that professional with me. Trust me, I am nothing like anyone who comes up here.”

 

“I could tell by the Converse.”

 

Phil mentally slapped himself for saying that, turning on his heel to apologize. His words were caught in his throat when he saw the sheepish expression on Daniel’s face. His lips had quirked into an embarrassed smile, shrugging so faintly that Phil barely noticed it.

 

“Yeah, full disclosure, my father is going to have a fit about that whenever he shows up. So, I’m warning you to take cover.”

 

He watched as Dan forced a laugh, rolling his eyes in a way to was meant to be sarcastic. It came off as more sad than anything.

 

“I think I’m the safest out of everyone here. I have a whole bar to hide behind.”

 

Phil felt Dan watching him over the rim of his glass, his eyes following him as he moved around behind the bar to place the bottle back. It was unnerving, to say the least. Everyone who came to the bar barely cast Phil a second glance and now some lawyer’s kid was practically staring him down.

 

“What’s your name?” Finally breaking the silence, Daniel placed the glass down on the counter with a clink.

 

“Phil. I’ll add that to your lists of firsts, no one here has asked me before.”

 

The frown that fell across Dan’s face was sincere, his brow furrowed immediately. He took a slow sip of his drink, swirling the liquid in the glass.

 

“Rich people suck, tbh.”

 

Phil nodded a bit too quickly, making Dan snort. Their conversation , along with Dan’s drinks, flowed naturally from there.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Dan’s father showed up, Dan was a bit drunk. His eyes had glassed over a long time ago, his sentences reducing to giggles every time he stumbled over a word. Phil had found the whole sight adorable, spending a solid portion of their conversation coercing Dan into drinking some water.

 

“I hate it, you know?” Dan slurred, leaning back on the barstool in a way that made Phil’s pulse quicken. He resisted the urge to reach out and push it back down to the floor.

 

“Hate what?”

 

“This.” He waved around, the stool wobbling beneath him before Dan moved forward and grounded it again. He leaned across the counter as if the next words that were going to leave her lips were some big secret. Phil obliged and met him in the middle, eyebrow risen.

“Working for my dad sucks. Going to law school sucks. Having to sit on that couch and talk about my future sucks…” Dan had turned the stool so he was looking away from Phil, his eyes locked on the elevator door. As if on cue, his father and an older boy stepped out. With a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder at Phil. “… I think most of all, my brother sucks.”

 

Pushing himself away from the counter, Dan grabbed his jacket and headed towards the couch. Just like he had warned, his father was already chastising him about the shoes. The brother stood off to the side, looking incredibly smug as he nodded along with everything Mr. Howell was saying.

 

* * *

 

For the rest of the night, Phil found himself staring towards Dan’s corner. He was slumped back against the couch, nursing a vodka tonic Phil had just made. The brother, who Phil found out was named Alex when he saw his credit card, was talking animatedly. Mr. Howell was practically beaming at every word that came out of his mouth. When the conversation fell on Dan, his expression immediately changed. He looked disapproving and stern, his lips drawn into a tight line as he shook his head everytime Dan spoke.

 

The later it became, the less Dan spoke. Until it was almost like he wasn’t there at all.

 

Phil found himself feeling bad for Dan. Despite only talking to him for an hour or two earlier, he could admit he’d developed a tiny crush on the brunette. They had a lot in common despite coming from two different paths of life.

When Dan got started on something he loved, the way he talked about it was captivating. Even if he was drunk. Phil had found this out when an older pop song started playing throughout through the speakers. Dan had immediately swerved the conversation onto that, ranting a mile a minute about different styles of music and how they’d changed over the years. Admittedly, Phil didn’t care but found himself hanging on every word Dan said like his life depended on it.

 

Maybe the crush also stemmed from the fact Dan was the first person in Level Nine who had spoken more than two words to him. He had seemed genuinely interested in whatever Phil was saying even stopping him to ask questions. Phil had never been more paid attention to in his life.

 

* * *

 

 

It was late. People had started to drift out of the bar, leaving only the  Howell’s and a few odd people meandering about. Dan caught Phil’s eye from across the room, rolling his eyes with what Phil assumed was supposed to be subtle head nod towards his brother.

It definitely wasn’t subtle.

His father and brother had already turned their heads, casting a single glace at Phil before before turning back around. Mr. Howell stood up and Alex followed, leaving Dan slumped against the couch. It was sad that it didn’t surprise Phil when they left without speaking a word to Dan.

 

“Bye to you too.” Dan huffed, loud enough to attract attention from the few remaining customers. His father didn’t turn around, the elevator doors already closing behind him. Phil smiled sympathetically at him, to which Dan raised his empty glass, mocking a cheers motion from across the patio, before returning to the barstool he’d claimed early.

 

“Well that sucked.”

 

Phil was already sliding a glass of water down the bar a lemon wedge on the side (because ‘water without lemons was gross’ according to Dan.) Dan twirled the lemon in between his fingers, fumbling with it before it fell to the floor. His bottom lip poked out in a pout as he looked down towards the floor, eyes lifting to Phil in the best puppy dog expression he’d ever seen. It took Dan approximately three bats of his eyelashes before Phil was practically power walking to the end of the bar where they kept the fruits for cocktails and placing another lemon in Dan’s drink.

 

“Thank you, Philly.”

 

The smirk on Dan’s lips alongside the nickname made Phil roll his eyes and a blush creep onto his cheeks simultaneously.  

 

“It’s my job.” He mumbled, resisting the urge to take the lemon away out of spite (he would just end up giving him a new one five seconds later anyway).

 

Dan stared at the water, silently watching the condensation drip down the side, while Phil resumed the nightly cleaning schedule for the bar. Every so often, he could feel Dan looking at him, but he’d always looked back down before he could catch him in the act.

 

“You’re the last person here, you know we technically closed like 30 minutes ago.”

Phil moved from behind the bar, the latch of the gate clicking behind him.

 

 

Dan hopped from the barstool, his feet hitting the floor with a thud.

 “I know. I was waiting for you to get off.”

Swinging his arm forward, he motioned for Phil to lead the way.

 

 

“Why?” Phil started walking, pausing in front of the elevator before turning to the stairs the employees usually took. Dan quickly looped his arm through his, stopping him dead in his tracks. Before Phil could object, he had pushed the button for the elevator door and drug Phil inside.

 

“So I can take you home, duh.”

The way Dan spoke made it sound like it should have been obvious. His confidence faltered a split second later, when he started stammering over himself.

“I mean, like, _literally_ home. I’m not trying to fuck you or anything yet.... Not _yet_ like I’m planning on it or anything. I mean I could be into that one day if you’re into that. I mean literally take you to your house. Is that creepy? Now that I’m saying it outloud it sounds incredibly creepy.”

 

Phil couldn’t stop himself from erupting into a fit of laughter. Dan’s drunken rambling was almost as cute as the blush the spread across his face. He leaned back against the wall of the elevator, looking up at the weird designs painted on the ceiling.

 

Once he finally calmed down, he turned to Dan.

“It’s not creepy. But, you _definitely_ can’t drive right now.”  

 

“ _Phil, Phil, Phil_." Dan tsk-ed sarcastically, shaking his head, before he wrapped his hand around Phil’s. "You think _I_ , the _son of the man who founded Howell and Son Law firm_ , drives himself anywhere? Ha!”

 

Phil deadpanned at his dramatics. What was even happening?

 

“No, seriously. I have a driver tonight. Let me take you home?”

 

Phil hesitated, but after taking one look at the hopeful expression on Dan’s face, he knew there was no way he was going to tell him no. 

 

(Little did Phil know, this wouldn't be the last time he found himself in the backseat of this car. Funny how things work out sometimes.)


End file.
